The Scent of Absence
by Cantare
Summary: Post-Antiphony. Mozenrath's POV. Please read Antiphony first to avoid spoilers!


**The Scent of Absence**

He knew she was gone even before he opened his eyes. He kept them closed.

It was still dark; it was always dark.

When had he started noticing that his land was dark? Darkness could only be understood in contrast to light. He had never been conscious of its natural darkness before.

It was now silent; it was always silent.

He stretched one arm slowly to the side, hearing the slide of his skin across empty sheets. He was now conscious of silence as well, which could only be understood in contrast to sound. It had been silent here, undisturbed save for the occasional movement of lifeless servants. A fitting backdrop for his research and experiments. A perfect medium for his thoughts.

He turned onto his side slowly, pushing back the oppressive silence that had somehow lost its hallowed status in his mind, and inhaled deeply, allowing the scent of her absence to pervade his senses. The bones of his cursed hand clicked softly as he ran his fingers across the rumpled sheets, sensing the fading trail of magic that adorned the emptiness beside him. He opened his eyes to confirm what he already knew.

He would not be seeing her again for a long while, now that she was under the sage's protection. The knowledge was peculiar to him, not quite blending in his mind, even though he had been preparing a space for it. Perhaps it was the fact that he had not been the one to free her. The lingering imprint of the seer's power in his consciousness seemed to spite him, his inability to fulfill his latest vow. She was not the first person to have witnessed his failure in this, and to have paid such a price for his life.

He closed his eyes at a memory he had shut away because it was impossible to forget. How was it that in the span of scarcely a month, an upstart princess had dug in this deep and robbed him of such a large portion of his victory? How had he allowed her to do so?

His right hand itched with the condemning accusations of memory, his fleshless fingers remembering the last life he had taken when they still bore flesh.

He did not allow himself to fall into the past; that was a rule. One of the cardinal self-imposed rules that had led him to become one of the most powerful sorcerers the world had ever seen. Powerful men did not waste. It was wasteful to look back and linger.

And in the practiced logic of his mind, he knew that she was already in his past. It was useless to look back.

He had gotten what he had wanted and more, while she had given more than she had wanted.

The core of her accusations stood out plainly in his mind. Yes, she was right. He had done what he had no right to do. And she had done what she had no obligation to do. Whose fault was it, then? He had overstepped his bounds, but she had overstepped hers as well in the opposite direction. For all the time she spent in self-torment, had she not realized this plain fact? There was balance in everything.

There was balance now. Darkness and silence, a restored equilibrium. He was the Lord of the Black Sand, alive and strong, his reign cemented against the further meddling of demons and goddesses. She was the Princess of Agrabah, alive and broken, her reign yet to begin alongside an undeserving, painfully ignorant street rat. When they saw each other next, the balance would continue, despite their shared knowledge that there remained unpaid debts, unspoken words, untraveled paths.

He was breaking his cardinal rule of non-remembrance. A closely related rule was no speculation. It was useless to think on what could have been and what could still be when the chances were negligible. He was not a speculator, but a realist, a heavily insured gambler at most.

He had gambled correctly and won, as he almost always did. But this time, victory carried no sweet taste, only the scent of her absence.

_It's madness, what you've done to me._

He shifted his weight slowly and sat up, the soles of his feet pressing lightly against the cold stone floor. He allowed the cold to sink in alongside the darkness and silence.

_There is nothing worse than knowing love is wrong._

_I think that's what hell is._

His hands rested on the edge of the mattress. His skeletal fingers had punctured the sheets once again, he realized belatedly.

His feet made no sound as he made his way across the icy floor to his window, his ankles brushing the rumpled fabric of discarded clothing. The cold air welcomed him, caressing his bare skin as the moon bathed his body in stolen light.

He placed his hands on the sill and looked down over the black sands of his desolate kingdom. The familiar dunes had shifted, the changed landscape still a jarring image in his mind that refused to slide into his consciousness as of yet. The battle with the goddess had reshaped the land itself, though the dark spirit within the sands remained, immutable as ever.

He closed his eyes and felt it whisper within, wordlessly, through the bond that tied him to the land, the bond that made him its master. It was content. He had done well in his stewardship over its sands. He had full rights to its power once again, and yes, he would put it to good use.

He dressed and opened the door to leave the room. He paused, lowering the hand that had twitched impulsively in the beginning of a teleportation spell. It fell still at his side, power receding back from his fingers. He was no longer living on borrowed time, but he still had reason to be careful with his use of magic. It would not do to cast spells needlessly; he had to relearn how to follow the cardinal rule of his youth. No waste.

He walked the familiar halls of his stronghold, the spell-soaked walls resonating in his presence as he ran his hand absently along their stones. He would have to renew the defensive spells more often, seal his Citadel more tightly against intruders, both magical and non-magical. There were improvements to be made to the Mamluks as well, improvements he had put off for too long as he had been primarily occupied with preserving his own life. Primarily occupied with her.

The halls of his Citadel seemed unfamiliar, foreign to him as he had seldom traveled down any particular corridor in its entirety. Where was it that Mirage's illusion had penetrated his defenses? Where were the weak points in his shields? It had been too long since he had properly checked. It was tedious work, and there had been more pressing matters at hand. Still, there was no excuse for failure. He would not allow for such intrusions ever again.

He flexed the bones in his right hand as he focused his power in the absence of the gauntlet. A peculiar itch manifested itself in his arm, which had long been dead to all feeling except in these rare instances. The skeletal limb protested weakly against the current of magic being channeled through it, without the familiar embrace of the gauntlet to magnify and facilitate his inner power. Ignoring the itch with slight irritation, he managed to conjure a piece of fruit in his palm. He frowned as he noticed it was not as ripe as he had imagined in his mind. He bit into it anyway; it was no time to be selective about what he ate. He would have to practice magic without the gauntlet more often, even if it was tedious. He had learned the hard way that overdependence on any one technique or magical item, even if it was as powerful as the gauntlet, was a quick road to disaster.

He reached his study, pushing the door inward. He had not been inside since the battle with the firecats. The door budged only slightly; the mountain of books and the fallen shelf were probably blocking the way. He applied more force and heard the scrape of wood and paper across the debris-strewn floor as the door slid slowly inward. His first glimpse of the interior of the room was enough to give him a severe migraine.

Half of the room was covered in haphazard piles of books and scrolls along with smashed flasks, crucibles, and other fragile apparatuses. The long window was completely gone; he could feel the open breeze from the desert flowing in, chilling the air. A shifting layer of dark sand covered the floor near the window, having blown in from the battle with Mirage.

His hands clenched into fists in heightened annoyance. He did not let it progress to aggravation or fury. Though it would do well for his mental state to vent his frustration, it would not help his recently renewed physical condition. He forced himself to breathe more evenly; this was far too deep of a reminder of the only time in the past when a part of the Citadel had been utterly devastated. The Book of Khartoum debacle still smarted when he chanced to recall it. He moved toward the window, stepping over broken glass and torn parchment. He would seal the gaping hole in the wall and leave the rest of the cleanup to his Mamluks.

He raised his right hand toward the glassless window and began to concentrate his power. It should have been a simple mending spell, but sweat began to bead on his brow with each second that passed, each glowing inch of glass that began to creep forth from the empty frame.

He finished several minutes later, lowering his hand and breathing hard. A sudden spell of dizziness drove him to his knees. Under the palm of his left hand he felt the earthy grains of black sand that had settled across the floor. Somehow its presence, however thin, was a small consolation, taking the edge off his self-irritation. He could hardly carry out a simple structural repair without overexerting himself. The bones of his right hand clenched feebly, already trembling from the overuse of power, yearning for their leather shield. He gritted his teeth and stood, brushing the sand from his clothes.

He paused as he reached the next room in his Citadel where he had unfinished business.

The small space lit up dimly with a snap of his fingers. There it was. The vessel of a broken curse that had drawn his life across shortened strings, each grain of sand a testament to his slavery. The Lord of the Black Sand, enslaved by a handful of fluorescent grains in a simple hourglass. He reached the table and picked up the unassuming object, its deadened sands now the common shade of earth. The few grains remaining in one compartment shifted to the side as he turned the hourglass slightly beneath the scrutiny of tired eyes.

He was free. The thought still echoed strangely in his head, though he had been absolutely determined to ensure its truth throughout his entire life. He had never lost certainty of his victory; he simply did not lose. Perhaps a few battles, but never a war. Goddesses and street rats alike would not defeat him, no matter how fortunate or cunning they were.

His grip tightened around the curve of the glass as he had to stop his thoughts from wandering once again. He had learned what he had needed to learn from his past defeats; regret over past omissions and mistakes was merely poison.

He considered destroying the hourglass, grinding it into fine glass powder and useless sand. It would be easy enough to do even without magic. But he hesitated, and felt distinctly unsettled by his gut aversion to such a course of action. He had wanted to obliterate the accursed object every day he had felt it tug at his weakening body, yet somehow he was faltering now at the thought of fulfilling that dire wish.

Perhaps because it was the clearest reminder of the cost he had paid and his absolute right to the power he had gained, outside of his fleshless arm. No, it would not do to destroy such a thing. He would keep it. Out of sight and out of mind, but it would remain in case it was ever necessary to remind himself of his priorities.

He concentrated, imagining a seldom-visited room in his Citadel where he could store the object permanently. The bones of his fingers clicked against each other rather forcefully once it disappeared; he had not realized he had been gripping it so tightly.

His mind drew a blank for several seconds as he entered the hallway, and then the tasks that awaited him rematerialized in clear order in his mind. He suddenly felt disinclined to attend to them now. It unnerved him; he was a realist. It did not matter whether he wanted to seal his defenses or not. It was a necessity. But he found that he was walking in the opposite direction from the corridor that had been infiltrated by Mirage's illusion.

He could not feel the coldness of the glass under the fingers of his right hand. The wine flowed down his throat just the same, its bittersweet taste calming his nerves as it usually did. He rested his feet against the hard wood of the long dining table, leaning back in his spacious chair. The bottle in his hand was half-empty. Though he conjured most of what he ate, quality drink was too difficult to mix properly in his mind. He acquired rare brews through various means and stocked his cabinets with the finest wine in the Seven Deserts.

He stared evenly at the dark liquid within the tinted glass. He took another measured swig before his fingers tightened once more and he set the bottle down before him with no small amount of force. Standing abruptly from his chair at the head of the table, he had to leave the room, on the brink of breaking his cardinal rule once again. Agitation was returning to his nerves; the wine had not alleviated the problem for long.

He shut his eyes, willing the escaped memory to recede behind its locked door. But the image of another man, the only entity he had hated more than the hourglass, refused to retreat. He remembered the wine bottle at his master's lips, the trickle of dark liquid running down his chin, the dark intent in his unnaturally light eyes as he had turned his attention to the young princess sitting at his right for the first time.

The bottle shattered behind him as he left the room without a backward glance. He forced the tremors in his right hand to cease; it was thirsting now for the gauntlet, and his mind was beginning to feel dizzy from the effects of its absence.

Power was pulsing through his veins, scouring for an outlet. The temptation to open just one was enticing, but he shut the thought away before he could consider it further. Destroying the inside of his own stronghold in a fit of rage, no matter how justified the reason, was a petty waste.

At long last he went to the place he had been purposely avoiding, deciding that it was better to yield than to risk giving into destructive temptation. The room seemed larger than he remembered. He identified the one sliver of empty space on the closely packed shelves immediately; only one book had been removed. The bed was unmade, exactly the same as it had been for the past two weeks. He approached it with reluctant anticipation, curling his lip in self-disgust.

Standing at its edge, he looked down at its bared sheets, carelessly strewn about as the discarded clothing in his own room. Abruptly he turned his back to the bed and raised his right hand steadily, staring at the empty space in the middle of the room. Under the force of his will, the air began to shimmer.

He would break his rule of discipline just this once. Before he resorted to breaking physical objects in this dangerous state of madness.

He concentrated, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, searching for that point in space and time occupied by her life essence. He brushed aside the sickening accusations from his pride and the cold assertions of his logical mind. Yes, he had sunk to a new low. Yes, he knew she was gone and it was useless to search. This would accomplish absolutely nothing except satisfy the disturbing penchant for self-torture he had acquired as of late.

The air continued to shimmer and swirl, but no solid image materialized. He frowned, focusing his mind and power more intently. He had always been able to locate her, or any person for that matter, within seconds. A simple spell like this was nothing for a sorcerer of his caliber. But it was not working.

He stared at the bones of his right hand. Was it the absence of the gauntlet that was hindering him? He quickly ruled out that notion. He had performed the spell perfectly; the air still swirled in front of him, a clear manifestation of his power. The problem did not lie with him.

His insides lurched abruptly in unease, but he was too occupied with this new revelation to scowl at his own weakness. Was she dead? Had she been captured again? Had the old fool shielded her from him as well?

He frowned and concentrated his power once more, silencing the protests of his now aching hand to locate another life force he grudgingly knew too well. An image of a crude hovel solidified in the air before him as he latched onto the street rat's presence. Ignoring the dilapidated state of the walls and floor, his gaze riveted on the strong-shouldered man asleep on outlandishly placed, brightly colored cushions. It was late morning, but the fool still had not risen. He noted the haggard look on the street rat's features even in rest; he was in worse shape than he had ever seen him outside of battle.

So she was not in Agrabah.

He dispelled the image with an angry wave of his hand and drew more power from his already low reserves to transport himself outside. The sands welcomed him as he knelt under the onslaught of another spell of nausea. Black grains sifted through his fingers, both whole and fleshless, the familiar texture soothing to his senses. He breathed deeply. The power in his land was there waiting for him. It would always be there, the core essence of his authority, the weapon with which he would carve his empire, the shield that would protect him as it had countless times in the past.

But it too was silent in response to his question as he came ashamedly close to begging in his own eyes. Its almost limitless power was at his disposal, but only he could channel that power and breathe sharp consciousness and will into it. It could not locate her for him.

He stood slowly, drawing on the hidden strength that was always there when it was necessary to stand from defeat. The wind brushed strands of his hair back from his face, and the sands shifted in an old dance whose rhythm had been established long before he had arrived here.

It was maddening. He stood surrounded by power, immersed in its intoxicating embrace once again, yet he was powerless. He could not accomplish one simple task, another thorn of failure that embedded itself in his side.

And though failure curled his hands into fists, he still could not stop the tremors of absence that ran disturbingly through unfeeling bones.


End file.
